Lady of Dorne
by Ramzes
Summary: AU: Rhaegar wins at the Trident and for a while, things look peaceful... until, all of a sudden, Elia is called upon to adopt a new part: Lady of Dorne.
1. Loss

**Okay, it was not planned or wanted at all. A new story is the last thing I need! It was just an idea that I had today. It wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to start writing it down.**

_Lady of Dorne_

**Loss**

_287 AL_

It was a lovely Dornish night. The crescent moon gave off just enough light to bring on something ethereal, something filling the space between earth and sky. The stars sparkled in the black water, making it look like it was sprinkled with fireflies. The air was redolent with the aroma of blood oranges and flowers, the scent of new growth. It was so peaceful.

And it was not right. The Water Gardens never used to be peaceful. Even in the bosom of night, there always used to be something giving up the presence of children, the breathing of youth and innocence.

Used to be.

"Why are you still sitting here?"

Oberyn Martell turned his head and shrugged. The flame of the lantern in the far end of the terrace reached forward like a greedy hand intended to grasp the water. His father's face was just as weary as he supposed his own was. There were deep bruised against his eyes and new lines on his face that hadn't been there before.

"I didn't feel like going in."

Alric Gargalen sighed. "I can relate…"

He took a seat in a chair nearby and like Oberyn, stared at the pool beneath. "We cannot go on like this," he finally said. "Oberyn, you must return to Sunspear. People need to see that you're alive and well. There are all kind of rumours…"

Oberyn laughed, albeit shortly. "Rumours about me? Why, that's a first!"

"Be serious," Alric said sharply and puckered his thin eyebrows. His black eyes held his son's gaze firmly. "I'll try to do whatever I can to help you but Sunspear needs to see that the Martell line still is."

Oberyn looked aside, too tired to form a proper snarky response. Usually, he and his father raised blazing rows that made the courtiers around dash for cover but not today. Not any day soon. "Whatever you can," he echoed and sighed. "Undo it, Father. Do it over and make it all go away. Tell me that there was no plague at all and it was all in my vivid imagination… like you did when I was a child…"

Alric looked down. "If I only could…"

For a while, they were silent, both thinking of the last time they had stood together at a terrace. It had been at Sunspear and they had watched the entrance of the ships in the port of Sunspear, among them the Pentosi galley that had brought the plague in Dorne. The plague that had claimed thousands of lives in just two months. Who knew how many more would it have taken, had they not closed Sunspear and the nearby boroughs off. About a quarter of the citizens of Sunspear were dead. Half of the children in the Water Gardens were no more and as soon as the quarantine was over, the rest had been returned to their parents who were frantic to make sure that they were alive and well, so now the palace was almost empty. Oberyn had come to almost like it.

"He used to watch me from here when he came to visit," he said all of a sudden. "And if he missed on this on his very first day here, I'd be terribly offended."

Alric smiled. "Yes," he said. "I remember. I also happen to remember that he barely missed that first day, though… it was easier to let you drag him here and finish his work later than argue with you and finish it later anyway. And with you, it was no sure thing that he wouldn't find a snake or two in his bed if he happened to incur your wrath."

The smile dropped off as suddenly as it had appeared. They couldn't keep talking about Doran as if he would make an appearance any minute now and say wryly that he was flattered to be an object of such interest. But they couldn't talk about the fact that he was no more either. That Mellario was no longer. That Quentyn's tomb, next to his sister's, was yet to be finished. It was too early.

Despite his scornful mask, Oberyn knew that he's have to go to Sunspear, and soon. The people needed to know that he was alive before madness ensued.

"I'll probably leave tomorrow," he said. "I'll leave Ellaria and the girls here, though."

Nothing on earth could make him subject them to the ruin he was to face if there was an alternative.

"Don't worry," a woman said from the door behind him. "I'll help her take care of them."

Oberyn rose and led her to his chair, avoiding the sofa where she had used to sit with Doran. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Why, is someone?" she wondered.

In the pale lights of night only the oval of her face was clearly visible. Her features were blurred and it was easy to imagine that it was Elia sitting with them. Of course, they wouldn't want Elia here. For first time in years, they were grateful that she was safely away at King's Landing. That blasted husband of hers might be a disaster but he was vastly better than the plague.

Alric looked at his niece and almost smiled. "So you think you can help someone care for the children? Until the very last moment you give birth, I suppose?"

Lady Alynna Dayne looked down at her belly and her lip curled. It was true that she was expected to give birth any day now but in the horror of everything that had happened around her, very few people paid attention to that, Alynna herself included. Alric and Oberyn had both been dismayed when she had happened to arrive at the Water Gardens only a day before the quarantine had been enforced. She had had no choice but wait the sickness to run its course and die away, just like the rest of them did. "Yes," she said grimly. "I'll have to find a midwife, after all."

Oberyn sat down on the cold marble floor near her. "I'll find you one in Sunspear," he promised.

She looked at her uncle. "Are you leaving, too?"

Oberyn also looked at his father, eyebrows arched.

Alric shook his head. "No," he said. "I did my best to help your mother and then help Doran but there were always roads that they had to forge on their own. Until your sister returns, you're in charge of Dorne. It is your responsibility, Oberyn. I am sorry but that's about the size of it."

Oberyn nodded with grim acceptance. "We have to send for Elia indeed," he said and his mouth twisted. "I have no doubt that the fight for dominance will start immediately at King's Landing. They'd run each other through while they give our good King advice on who should accompany her and assert her succession here… or rather, Rhaegar's own."

"No!" Alynna exclaimed and gripped the arms of her chair. "He cannot do it. Can he?"

Her eyes moved from her uncle to her cousin. Their expressions only confirmed what she suspected was true. Targaryens did not believe that women could and should rule. And with no great lands of their own, they could not turn off the chance to gain Dorne - for their own domain, not just a vassal princedom.

"Never worry," Alric said. The idea of his goodson taking charge of Dorne through Elia sickened him no less than it did her. The thought that the man who had humiliated his daughter and had been a reason for her almost death could seize control was no less than abhorrent. But there was something more: House Gargalen had lost many of its members in the war that had erupted after Rhaegar had run away with his precious wolf girl. Alric was a man who never sought quarter – but he didn't give it to others either. Rhaegar Targaryen would never rule in Dorne – and that had been confirmed as early as his wedding. Now, the situation had changed but not this much. Dorne was Elia's right, not Rhaegar's. "Our lords and ladies won't stand for it."

He rose, for the sight of the two of them caused him pain. Alynna looked so much like Elia, in the moonlight even he could mix them. And that reminded him of earlier, better times – before Elia's marriage, long before Doran's death. He had been deeply affected by Mors and Olivar's untimely deaths – but this was worse, far worse. He now knew that he had almost forgotten them in a way he wouldn't forget Doran, Mellario, his grandchildren.

In the moonlight, his eyes glinted coldly. "Go to Sunspear," he said again. "We must summon a council. And we must call your sister back – without Rhaegar Targaryen."


	2. Waiting

**Thanks to everyone who left a review, you help me keep my inspiration.**

_Lady of Dorne_

**Waiting**

Once again, Elia looked up and once again, her eyes found nothing. Just the sky. Her eyes tried to permeate the clouds above her head, hoping to see a raven coming from the south, from home, but found none. The rumours were flowing incessantly, each more fearsome than the last. All they spoke of a plague, of a sickness that had been localized in a few pockets of Dorne… the biggest one being Sunspear. They spoke of bodies rotting out in the streets, for people were too scared to go out and bury them, thus spreading the contamination further. Of dry winds carrying it in all directions. Of quarters left without inhabitants. Of highborn and lowborn dying alike in drove. Of quarantine that made it hard to know the real size of the damage.

All the time she could spare for herself, she spent in the sept, praying. Rhaegar insisted that she was doing her health no favour by kneeling in the cold for so long. She paid him no mind. He had gone so far that he had actually ordered braziers to be taken and pillows be laid out in the sept for her benefit. She ignored the pillows and the Great Septon himself had objected to the braziers. Day after day, immediately after forcing herself to swallow the breakfast her ladies fetched her, she knelt on the cold marble of the sept, beseeching the Seven to spare those she loved, to look kindly to the land of her birth, the land of her heart. Then, she fulfilled the queenly duties that could not wait, spent some time with the children, went on the top of the highest tower of the Red Keep to look for ravens and returned to the sept where she stayed until dusk and the evening feast.

"Princess, I'd like to…" the Kingsguard said and she startled. He did, too, realizing what he had said. When they were alone, the few Dornish attendants she had left addressed her with the title she had been born to but to the Sword of the Morning, she was always "my queen" or "Your Grace".

"Yes?" she prompted him. "You may speak freely, Ser Arthur."

Her words were one thing but they both knew better. This terrible waiting had brought them closer once again, for he had his own loved ones to worry about, just as she did. But there was still the line that could not be crossed – it was in her surprise, in his own shock at addressing her the old way, as he had once when they had still been friends. They might have started feeling somewhat comfortable around each other again but it was only as long as they held to their parts – the first queen and the Kingsguard.

He swallowed and braced himself the way she had seen him bracing at the Water Gardens before the water competition with his friends. "We used to be friends once. When we were children, we always told each other the truth. We never lied to each other… I'd like to have our relationship stay the same."

"But it is the same," Elia said.

He shook his head. A small puff of the wind made his white cloak billow. "No, it isn't and I'd like… I'd like to make amends. Whatever you say. I cannot stand this situation any more."

Her lips curved into a faint, sad smile, the loss stinging as it had the day when, still too weak to rise from her childbirth bed, she had heard that he had disappeared along with Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, as it had the day Rhaegar had returned alone, leaving Arthur to guard his other wife, as it had the day she had learned that it was their homeland that he had been staying in while she had fought for herself, her children and her Dornish retinue in the Red Keep, while her kin had been dying in the battles Rhaegar's obsession had led to.

"It wasn't me who made it such, Ser Arthur," she reminded him.

"It wasn't me either, Princess."

"I know," Elia sighed. She had always acknowledged this. Her head knew it but her heart was a different matter. Stupid heart, it refused to let reason in. "But I cannot help but feel so."

He looked at her, then quickly looked aside, not bearing the sight of the hand she had raised to keep her hair from flowing into her face. With time, the scars had faded but they were there, they would never disappear, those ugly marks on her skin, the lines left by the burning beams the day King Aerys had razed the Red Keep almost to the ground… Arthur had often wondered what he had been doing this exact day, this exact moment at the round tower in the Red Mountains, yet he could never remember. All his days had been the same – the agony of not doing anything while the others fought, not knowing what was going on, not being able to go home when home was so tantalizingly near…

"What can I do to make up?" he asked, feeling what her answer would be. Elia of Dorne was nothing if not just. She measured him objectively – and gave him what he objectively deserved. Respect. The favour a noted member of the Kingsguard merited. But what he wanted should come out of the heart – and no one could control their heart.

She gave him a long hopeless look. His heart ached at the thought of everything they had lost, the trust they had shared and no longer did. "What you do already. You'll stay the Kingsguard and I, the Queen." She looked at the distance for one last time. "Let's go."

In the courtyard, the Master of Laws executed a low bow in front of the Queen. Arthur fought the urge to stand before her, shield her from those ghastly pale eyes. He could feel her revulsion even as she nodded graciously. Of course, they had no grounds to accuse the man of anything: he was always perfectly deferential to Elia, her children, the remains of her Dornish retinue. He performed his duties efficiently and meticulously. They only felt that he was a man who was gruesome and unclean in his soul. Elia felt the urge to take a bath each time she had been near him. "Lord Bolton," she said.

"Your Grace," he replied. "Are there news of your homeland?"

She shook her head. "Still nothing."

She would never let her worry show in front of someone like him. In fact, she could now understand why Lyanna had thrown such a fit when she had learned of his appointment, citing all the vices and supposed vices of House Bolton, as if a faultless character and goodness of the heart were what Rhaegar sought in his new Master of Laws, as if she had expected that he'd give the position to one of her family instead. Elia had been quite surprised by the girl's surprise. Surely the fact that Rhaegar had appointed Lord Yronwood, of all Dornishmen, Master of Ships should have told Lyanna what his course was? With time, Elia had come to realize the full extent of the girl's naivety where politics was concerned – and the fact that in King's Landing, everything _was_ about politics. But no matter how impulsive Lyanna was, she was not wrong about Roose Bolton. He was an evil man. Not that it mattered, of course…

"I am sorry to hear that," he now said. Elia only nodded.

"Thank you, my lord," she said. "You'll excuse me now. I have to go to my children."

"Of course, Your Grace," he said and bowed again.

She went on her way, mentally preparing to behave as normally as she could around the children. She had already decided that she wouldn't receive the merchants who had begged an audience – she could not focus enough. They could address their pleas to Lyanna or Rhaegar himself, although she doubted it would bring them much luck – Rhaegar was too consumed by worry about the future because it looked like despite his spending every night with Lyanna, she was just as able to give him the second daughter he so craved as Elia had been. As to Lyanna, she often complained that when she was forced to receive such people, she lost their train of thought between the blandishments and eloquent pleas they tried to win her over with. But now, Elia's state of mind was such that she lost her own train of thought ever so often – her worry was just too great. Only in the sept could she find some semblance of composure.

The echo of hooves brought her eyes to the gate of the yards. A group of horsemen came through. Arthur stood frozen, having recognized them a moment before she did. "Princess," he said and his voice caught.

Her eyes went over all their faces and finally stayed on the rider in the lead. Her father. Her blood curdled when she realized what that meant.

"No," she whispered.

Arthur's arms around her were the last thing she felt before blessed darkness engulfed her. She welcomed it eagerly.


	3. Words and Winds

**As always, thanks to all my reviewers for keeping this story alive.**

_Lady of Dorne_

**Words and Winds**

She opened her eyes slowly, reluctantly. Some instinct told her that she would wake up to something terrible, so she clung to her sleep for as long as she could. But finally, she lifted her eyelashes and tried to focus amidst the torrent of fear and silent screams raging in her head.

"Elia."

The sound of this voice, the sight of this face hovering over the bed carried back the memory she had tried to forget in her sleep… tried to escape in her unconsciousness. She reached out and caught her cousin's hand. "Who?" she asked in a low tense whisper.

When one looked at Naeryn Sand, they were usually reminded of a frail silver doll whose imperfection made the rest of her all more fragile but that appearance was deceiving. She was stronger than she looked like – and the power in her right arm and hand was something that no one but a maester could anticipate. She could shake Elia away as easily as if she were Aegon – but she didn't. Her violet eyes filled with tears. "Doran," she said. "Mellario. The children."

Elia's lips moved in a faint attempt to form words, then she gave up and simply let the tears fall.

Outside, her Dornish retinue had gathered in the antechamber. Her father and aunt had taken the grim task of informing everyone how their kin was faring. Elia heard a wail and she couldn't make the voice out as Naeryn hurriedly assured her that Oberyn and the girls were fine, as well as their other family. That made it better but not by much.

"You can weep all you want," Naeryn said. "The Seven knows that I still do. But do it now. Let the worst come out today, for tomorrow, we'll need you with a clear head."

Even in her grief, Elia understood the implication. She could not think about it now, though. She threw her arms around Naeryn's neck and wept.

She didn't know how much time had passed before finally, the door opened. A moment later she was swept in a tight embrace that almost lifted her off the bed. She clung to the familiar smell and grip of arms that had always made her feel safe and loved, the arms she had thought she would never feel again. "My precious one," he said hoarsely. "At long last…"

That was how the King found them when he opened the door to Elia's bedchamber – Alric leaning over her and she clinging to him, her fists curled into his doublet. Elia did not hear her husband's coming but Alric looked up, straight at Rhaegar. For a moment, the King saw the same shock that the newcomers he had seen on his way through Elia's suite had regarded him with. Alric looked down at Elia almost immediately, though. "Your Grace," he said. "I'd like a moment of privacy with my daughter."

Rhaegar nodded. "I understand, my lord," he said. "I only came to see whether Elia needed something."

Alric didn't say anything, just looked at him again. The tender expression he had been looking at Elia with swiftly melted into something entirely else altogether; in the brief flash of his eyes, Rhaegar immediately recognized the like of the man's son Oberyn. Alric reached for his daughter's hand, touched the long rugged scars and raised his eyebrows. _Is this your care_, his eyes spoke. "I assure you," Alric said evenly. "I am more than adequate to take care of whatever needs my daughter might have."

Since his concern about Elia had really been the only reason for his coming – at least for now, - Rhaegar decided not to take offense. He could hardly expect his goodfather to like him. And he was well aware that in such a moment, his presence would bring Elia more discomfort than comfort. Gone were the days they had felt good around each other. He didn't know how she felt about him – he hadn't seen _her_ in four years, just the polite serene mask a queen was required to wear. "I'll leave you, then," he said and did.

Swept by grief as she was, it didn't occurred to Elia that this might be her chance to have him leave her life forever.

* * *

_In the evening…_

To everyone's astonishment, Elia did appear on the evening feast, perfectly composed and immaculately dressed. As pale as ghost, she had her hand on her father's arm but she was walking steadily, as proud and dignified as ever. The retinue following them attracted everyone's notice, especially the two women with silver hair and amethyst eyes, clad in rich scarlet silks. Everyone knew that King Aerys had arranged Rhaegar's marriage to Elia specifically because she had some dragon blood on both sides but it was easy to brush her heritage aside as something that had been lost in flesh and spirit long ago. She never spoke of her Targaryen ancestors and when one looked at her, she was all Dorne, sun-kissed skin and eyes the colour of a deep night without a shade of light. Daella Targaryen's looks had passed her son and her granddaughter by – but they were more than evident in the woman who could only be her daughter. And the young one could only be _her_ daughter. Silver hair and amethyst eyes. Medium height and slim build. A poised posture and proud gait, as if they graced every chamber they walked in with the benevolence of their very presence. A wave of whispers rippled through the hall as the realization who exactly they were dawned upon everyone. Those were women who would be hidden away for the family honour's sake everywhere – everywhere but Dorne.

Elia seemed to be looking straight ahead but that was clearly not the case because when Naeryn started to head for one of the tables meant for their countrymen, she stopped and looked over her shoulder before turning fully. "You'll sit with me," she said and indicated the high table.

Naeryn gave her a stunned look. "I… I don't think…"

"Don't think," Elia said. "Just walk."

So Naeryn Sand, the girl without a father, an object of all kinds of rumours since before she was born, climbed to the dais and curtsied to the King.

Rhaegar stood to meet them and took Elia's hand from her father's to lead her to her seat. "What are you doing?" he murmured under his breath. Bastards did not belong to the dais but of course, he could not send Naeryn away without insulting his first wife.

Elia gave him a level look. "She's family," she murmured back. "She _always_ sits with us. Her stepfather doesn't mind."

Now, this was an argument he could not really object to. If Aegon V's youngest son had considered Naeryn's mother worthy to be his wife, he could not relegate the young woman to a lower table without risking a falling out not only with Alric and his sister but also his own mother. Rhaella always spoke fondly of her uncle Aemon whom she hadn't seen since Summerhall – and Naeryn's mother had been one of her closest friends, being only a few years older. Now, the two women exchanged smiles and Rhaegar decided to indulge Elia this time.

Behind him, Alric bowed to Rhaella and then Lyanna, quite perfunctorily this time. Rhaegar was relieved that he had bowed, however slightly. He imagined that Oberyn would have not conceded even this.

The servants started bringing the platters in and the feast started.

When Rhaegar felt it was safe, he cast a secret look at Naeryn, vowing that he would not stare. He just felt compelled to look at that part of her that had made her famous all the way through Dorne and a good deal of Westeros. To his surprise, she didn't require any special accommodations and dealt with her cutlery almost as easily as any of them, yet the King wasn't the only one who was looking at her, at the oval piece of skin her left wrist ended with. She truly didn't have a hand. She had been born without one.

Suddenly realizing that he _was_ staring, he was quick to look aside. Why had they brought her along? It would have been far kinder to leave her home where people were more or less used to her. Was this some kind of bizarre challenge or something? Or just desire to provide Elia with the company of a kinswoman? Since the end of the rebellion, most of her Dornish women had returned home. In truth, he had almost expected to see that Alric had brought along Ashara Dayne who had been Elia's closest companion.

Now, it was not the time to talk about politics and no one tried. But the formal condolences could preserve the peace only for so long. Even Arthur, in his white cloak at the end of the dais, looked tense, his eyes moving from Elia's father to Lord Yronwood and Lord Tyrell. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was meticulous in carrying out his duty but a few times, Rhaegar caught him staring at Aelinor Gargalen – Princess Aelinor Targaryen, he supposed it was, although she did not use the style. There was a distant, peculiar look in Gerold Hightower's eyes and Rhaegar was reminded that Aelinor had been born here at the time her father had been the Hand.

But the first arrow was shot with Mace Tyrell's remark. Rhaegar didn't know whether it was due to the wine the Fat Flower had consumed, or simply his antagonism against everything Dornish but the lord of Highgarden said the one thing that could not be explained away with any excuse of misunderstanding and misspeaking: he leaned over the table and grinned at Aelinor before asking in a loud, quite clear voice, "My lady, is it true that you have bedded Maelys Blackfyre?"

The Master of Ships glared at him and Rhaegar wondered why on earth he had decided it would be a good idea to place those two at the same table when they could barely stand the sight of each other even at the meetings of the Small Council. Alric's hand immediately went to his belt and Rhaegar realized that despite not having a sword, as was required in the King's presence, he probably carried a dagger.

Aelinor patted her brother's hand without looking at him to calm him down. Completely unabashed, she raised a fair eyebrow. "Excuse me," she said haughtily. "I thought I was at the King's table. If I need to relieve my conscience, I'll go to the High Septon."

In the silence following her dare, Rhaella turned to her and started a small conversation. Everyone sighed in relief. There wouldn't be any bloodshed in the great hall – yet.

* * *

_A few hours later…_

"Lord Yronwood surprised me."

That was the first words Elia said when she found herself back in her chambers alone with her father, aunt, and cousin.

Alric smiled a little. "He didn't surprise me, though," he said. "Your husband made a mistake by placing him at our table. He thought he was curtailing our presence but he overreached. Anders Yronwood might be a head of a rival House – but he's Dornish, first and foremost."

Elia reclined in an upholstered chair. Yes, it was true. She had almost forgotten that kinship that bounded Dornishmen against the rest of the world. They might fight each other and they might kill each other when they felt it was called to – but no one else could demean a fellow Dornishman or woman without repercussion.

For a while, the four of them were silent until they collected their thoughts. It was quite late at night and her servants had already gone to bed. Aelinor shivered.

"Are you cold?" Alric asked and without waiting went to close the terrace doors. He stayed there for a moment, his silhouette carved in the moonlight, the sudden pang on his face visible. "Lavender," he said and closed the doors. "It always reminds me of Arianne."

That was the very reason Elia had started growing it in the huge flowerpots. Lavender – that was her mother's private garden, her mother's perfume and the scent of her bathwater. Everything.

When her father came back to them, she realized just how old and tormented he was now. His dark skin and the inner fire he could summon at will hid the truth from those who met him for the first time but beneath, his cheekbones were deeply incised, his gait slow, his supply of energy quite exhausted. He had been functioning on sheer will alone – and of that, he had plenty. He had barely touched his wine at the feast and now, Elia realized that it had been because he hadn't been sure he'd be able to hold it.

He took a seat and his face tightened. "Now, we must talk."

"Do we?" Aelinor asked. "We're all tired from the journey and Elia is still dealing with the news. Give her some time."

"I am ready to give her all the time in the world," Alric said. "But the court won't. The King won't. I need to know what we can expect of Elia."

He looked at his daughter. "I believe you are aware of the situation," he said. "Later, we can discuss it in detail but for now, I need to know one thing. You know Dorne will never accept Rhaegar Targaryen as your consort. Do you wish to rule? Tell me now, for if you do not, I won't lose my time making overtures to your husband at all."

The silence that followed was a void of a lifetime filled with other expectations, other plans, other lessons. She had been taught in many arts, many studies and yes, she had even had many first hands glimpses of ruling Dorne. Memories burned through her – the nights her mother had spent over documents, trying to think of the best course in a terrible situation, the months and years her father had spent away fighting the enemies of Dorne and solidifying her mother's rule, the endless meetings of councils and warlords, the hours of rest cut short by a sudden unexpected developments. The mistakes.

At the same time, it was her chance of escaping a life that had become unbearable, no life at all. She could have a new one, in the land of her heart. She could be free from the Targaryen court and the attendants forced on her. She could have a husband who would actually come to her bed. One day, Rhaenys would have Dorne – and a far better life than the one Rhaegar's prophecy would doom her to.

She could have it all.

The pang in her heart was sharp, taking her breath away. No. She couldn't have it all. She had to leave something behind. Her son. The very thought made her bristle with horror. But as Lady of Dorne she would have far greater chances to help him claim his inheritance than an unloved, humiliated queen. Lyanna Stark might have been stupid enough to believe that love conquered all – by now, even she looked quite disabused of the notion – but Elia was far more practical. She would not let her son be usurped by the northern girl's pup. Not until she had a means, any means to fight back. And she would have much more of those if she made the decision.

Her father had the right of it. Dorne would never accept Rhaegar, with his prophecies and his absolute belief in his own dragon blood authority. Even Alric, who was a Gargalen, Prince Maron's own grandson, had been required to grow up in Dorne because Dornishmen didn't want to risk his royal kin influencing their future lady's consort too much.

"Do you… do you believe I can rule?" Elia finally asked and looked at them one by one: her father, her aunt, her cousin. They were all looking at her with the same expression of certainty.

Alric sighed. "You are Arianne's daughter, as well as mine. Of course I do."

It was strange, how such a small thing, a single reassurance could make up one's mind.

Elia slowly nodded.

* * *

_At the same time…_

"Did you see him? Did you? That's what happens when you send a child in Dorne. They send a little boy to Maron Martell and he raised them a Dornish snake."

Arthur's hand went for the hilt of Dawn which, of course, he was now not wearing. She was in his cell, ready to be polished as his evening ritual required. But even if he was wearing her, what could he do? Attack the Lord Commander?

_That's because he's drunk_, he told himself. _He's had the entire day watch and now he drank too much, too fast._ _He doesn't mean it._ Yet each time he heard such words, they cut him deeply. His vows were all there were… but they weren't. Even after all those years, Arthur was of Dorne. Deeply in his mind, in the very heart of his soul, he was Dornish. When he heard his brothers talking of Dornish snakes, Dornish licentiousness, Dornish plots, that made his blood boil, yet he could only grit his teeth and pretend that he had left it all behind. And in truth, it didn't happen all that often. But now, Gerold Hightower didn't look inclined to talk on any other topic.

"What about her? She must be doing something to preserve her looks, for she's just as lovely as she was in her time at court. She was as insufferable even then, though."

_If by insufferable you mean able to hold her own, so be it_, Arthur thought. For all his respect for the Gargalen siblings, he could see the Lord Commander's point. Despite being as physically different from each other as one could imagine, they both still possessed the charisma that had made their names famous through the realm – the handsome and fierce consort of the Lady of Dorne who had defended her rule and carried out her decisions in Dorne, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Essos, leaving a trail of battles and scandals, and the tragic bride in a blood-bespattered gown, the woman who had borne a child without being sure of the identity of the father, the sorceress who had ensnared a prince into marrying her despite the fact that her reputation had been frayed around the edges.

"Even Prince Aemon thought so," Hightower went on. "He often asked to borrow her tongue to sharpen his sword. Oh how they quarreled! He's the luckiest man in the world. As a man, as a physique he was ruined after Summerhall. I saw him at their wedding. He was nothing like the man he used to be. He couldn't even walk for long without catching his breath. His burns…"

_Yes_, Arthur wanted to encourage him. _What about his burns?_ He knew that it was not true. Aemon Targaryen was far from ruined, although he had sustained some damages at Summerhall. But he could not say it. The Prince hated his health to be discussed and Arthur was far too loyal to go against his wishes.

"And yet he got the most beautiful woman in the world to fall in love with him. Did you see her? Did you? Can you imagine how she was when she was young?"

Jaime Lannister gave Arthur a helpless look and even Oswell Whent looked at a loss. "Well," he finally said. "It would be logical for her to wed him when she had the chance. With a past like hers…"

The Lord Commander started nodding vigorously, his cheeks and nose bright red. "It would be logical," he repeated and gulped down his wine again. "Right. Everything in life is logical, there's nothing illogical. Except for our many vows and Aelinor Gargalen's marriage. This beauty clung to a cripple. Oh my! When I think of what a fabulous beauty this woman was."

This was the point where Arthur felt that he could take it no longer. He murmured an excuse and headed for his cell. After all, it wasn't as if the Lord Commander would remember of this monologue in the morning – and if he did, he might even feel embarrassed. At least, Arthur hoped so.

* * *

**A. N. To those unfamiliar with my Targaryen stories: Alric has Targaryen blood through his mother Daella Targaryen, a daughter of King Maekar I. So, Elia has dragon lineage from both sides but it looks like the Targaryen colouring isn't too strong when they marry outsiders, so she looks pure Dornish, just like her parents.**


	4. Negotiations

**As always, thanks to everyone who keep me inspired to write by leaving a review.**

_Lady of Dorne_

**Negotiations**

"What in the name of the Seven is happening here?"

The question was quite rhetorical since the sight was more than revealing: Aegon had made his way to the kitchens, stolen a still warm cake, placed in on a table in his mother's chambers, climbed on a chair and was now licking at the still liquid frosting…

Aelinor was laughing. Elia shook her head and thought that she could not part with her son. She felt that she would die if she did, literally – her heart would just stop beating.

"What are you doing?" she asked sternly. "Did you ask the cooks whether you уеиe allowed to take this cake out?"

He looked down, clearly not having an excuse at the ready. "You should go there and apologize," Elia ordered. "You cannot just steal the fruit of other people's labour, Aegon."

"But it tastes so good!" he argued, his purple eyes shining. "Come on," he invited. "Do you want some?"

He had addressed the last words to Naeryn. Elia was not surprised – children usually took up to her cousin immediately after meeting her and Aegon had been no exception. Naeryn raised an eyebrow. "Will I have to lick?" she asked.

The boy shook his head eagerly. "Come on," he said. "We'll find you a spoon."

He took her by the wrist to lead her somewhere. Elia noticed that it was the malformed arm that he had gripped; her son didn't pull away from touching Naeryn's deformity and once again, she thought that leaving him would be the death of her. But she had to do it for his future's sake.

* * *

She stood in front of her looking-glass, scowling at the pale apparition staring back at her. She now knew why her aunt had prohibited her from looking at her reflection but for the life of her, she could not understand why Aelinor had decided to make her look frailer than she already was. As if it was not enough that she was exhausted and ashen with grief, Aelinor had decided to apply face paint that made her waxy and added a touch of additional pain to her face. And she would not even start on the gown.

Naeryn who had just entered collected her jaw from the floor and looked at her mother in silent astonishment.

"Trust me," Aelinor told both of them. "I know what will work."

"Thinking that Elia might faint in his manly feet?" Naeryn guessed.

Aelinor smiled briefly, arranging her headdress. "You aren't too far from the truth," she said. "I've known Anders Yronwood since our youth. That's the image that will work on him." She paused. "My sister Myara's face," she finished, barely audibly.

Elia sighed, suddenly reluctant to proceed. "Is my father going to attend?" she asked.

Aelinor shook her head. "You have to do it on your own. If he's with you now, Yronwood will never accept you as your own woman. I'd rather not attend either but it cannot be avoided."

Elia rose and walked out of the bedchamber, proceeding to her presence chamber. There, she sat on her upholstered chair. Aelinor drew unobtrusively in the background where a soft-cushioned chair awaited her. Naeryn went to part the curtains, let the sunshine in.

The Master of Ships entered shortly after. As he bent the knee in front of her, Elia's eyes went over his graying hair, his strong, clean-shaved jaw and muscular arms. Big and burly, sharp and quick-witted, the head of the second most powerful House of Dorne had always been the kind of man she liked. _He would have made a good Prince_, she thought, _a descendant of a long line of kings._

"My lord," she said, "I am grateful for your answering at such a short notice."

He inclined his head. "My lady," he said and a jolt went through her. "It's my duty to serve you."

Of course. Now she was, theory at least, his princess.

"Please accept my deepest condolences," he added.

Elia pointed him at a chair in front of a small table set with Dornish wine and blood oranges. "Thank you, my lord," she said. "As saddened I am by my recent loss, I have my duty to think about." She paused. "As do you, I have no doubt, for no true Dornishman or woman could fail but be moved by the threat looming over us."

His eyes widened slightly, he was clearly shocked by her candour. She went on, calmly. "You've known me for years, my lord, as a queen as loyal to her king as you are in your capacity as Master of Ships. But my king is ill prepared to let a woman rule in her own right what he perceives as his right by the virtue of his marriage to me."

"The Targaryen inheritance customs are indeed unfortunate," he agreed cautiously, "where women are concerned."

She smiled a little and gestured for the table. He shook his head. "I am touched by your hospitality, Your Grace," he said, "but I am unwell."

Though not unexpected and indeed, quite logical, Oberyn's history with the old Lord Yronwood considered, his refusal stung her with the shoot of worry and tension. She raised her hand to her head before she could stop it and for a moment, she glimpsed a sad and bitter look in his eyes as if he had remembered something long gone, long forgotten.

She brought her hand down, looked at him, taking into consideration all she had heard about him, his behavior since he had come to court, his reaction when the Fat Flower had insulted her aunt.

Her hand slowly went to the pocket of her gown and came out with a chipped garnet ring all Dornish lords knew by description if not by a personal look at it. The symbols of Dorne shone at it in pale, worn imprint, the sun and spear that made the name of her city. She did not slip it onto her finger but showed it to him and held it on her palm. "Do you know what this ring means, my lord?" she asked.

He nodded. "He or she who wears it speaks with the voice of Dorne."

"I have it," she said. "Those fools in the Council think I'll let my husband take Dorne from me and my fellow Dornishmen. But they are wrong…"

"My lady," he interrupted. "Say no more. I cannot listen to you in good faith…"

Elia studied him in the sunlight. His inner fight was evident. He would hate to support a Martell at anything but he would also hate to see Dorne subdued. And the fact that he sat in Rhaegar's Small Council made it all harder, added another loyalty to be considered. _A good and noble man_, she thought again. _A man who's striving to do the right thing. He would have made a great prince._

"I am not asking you to act against your conscience," she said. "I am not plotting against the Iron Throne. In fact, I am not asking you to act at all. All I want of you is your neutrality. Do not sway those in Dorne you have influence over either way. I can manage the rest of it."

His eyes did not leave her face. Elia returned his look evenly, serenely. She meant what she said. She leaned closer. "I'd like to see the past left behind, my lord," she said. "You'll never rule Dorne as kings again, any part of it. You know it and I know it. But we'll need your support if we want to hold Dorne strong. And I do realize that this support is not something you'd give lightly." She paused. "I will elevate you above all others, my lord. I'll never deprive your House of the respect it deserves. But I need your support. Dorne needs it if we're to keep it strong and _Dornish_."

He was silent, pondering over her words. Then, he reached for a blood orange and Elia heaved a sigh of relief. "I said I'd preserve the dignity of your House, my lord," she said. "And I truly mean it. Your heir is not married yet and sadly, the plague took away his betrothed. Would a bride of my own blood and the Targaryen line be enough to show my sincerity?"

His breath caught. His eyes went to the other woman in the room. Aelinor Targaryen nodded, a slight smile on her lips. "My daughter Vaella is not yet spoken for," she said. "And my husband and I could hardly dream of a better match."

Lord Yronwood swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He knew Elia Martell was right. They would never rule Dorne again. But their line was a long and noble one and the match would bring them even more prestige in Dorne and the rest of the realm, for Vaella was of Aegon V's line. She bore the Targaryen _name_. In fact, given her lineage and the fact that both her parents were King Maekar's grandchildren, the blood of the dragon ran in her veins more undiluted than it did in the King's. The fact that the match offered a family tie to the highly respected Lord Gargalen was another bonus. He would prefer the older girl, of course, but they probably had another match arranged for her – or were arranging one. This plague had wreaked havoc into the lives of so many…

"This is an offer worthy of a more careful consideration," he said, and she smiled.

"You'll have the time to consider it, my lord. Just don't wait for too long."

He reached for the wine and poured some for all three of them. They drank to Dorne and Elia noticed that he did so first.

"My lord," she said impetuously. "I am in your debt."

He bowed deeply; when he rose, his smile made her blink, for it was a smile of admiration and a little nostalgia. "My lady," he said. "The debt is mine, for you allow me to serve Dorne."

As he left with another bow to the two women, he thought his son would be probably very happy to receive the news, for all of Aelinor Gargalen's daughters were as blessed physically as she was.

* * *

"So," Alric Gargalen said all of a sudden and his black eyes glinted. "I think it's time we talk."

It was hardly the time for talking and the noise of the supper in the great hall made any serious conversation a true challenge but Rhaegar had expected something like this. In the brief week of their acquaintance, Alric had never spoken a word of politics and succession but it was clear that the subject should come up soon. The older man hadn't come to stay indefinitely – at least Rhaegar hoped he hadn't. Alric Gargalen was far from nice, although it had taken him no time at all to make the children love him. Looking at him with Rhaenys, one could almost believe that he was just a doting grandfather. Rhaegar, though, knew better. His goodfather was about as harmless as a snake – his entire life proved it. It was a miracle that Elia had turned out so kind, with parents like hers.

It was a good thing that he never drank heavily. He was entirely clear-headed and alert. "Very well," he said, and rose. "Shall we?" he added, looking at Elia.

She rose and accepted the hand he offered her. Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell followed. As silent as a shadow, Naeryn Sand crept behind them.

In his chambers, Rhaegar lit a few more candles. In the yellow beeswax light, Alric looked older, world-weary, his features grim and severe, locked in tight resolve.

He looked at his daughter. "A terrible event brought me there but I am glad to have seen you." He paused. "I cannot stay forever, though. I have to return. And I have to bring Dorne your answer."

All three of them had been expecting it, yet Elia's face went a little paler. Rhaegar looked at her, concerned. "Are you unwell?" he asked. "Maybe we should postpone this conversation for another time?"

The sudden sense of peril made her sit up straighter. The speculations about her health were bad enough as it was. "There's no need," she denied. "As hard as I am stricken by my brother's loss, I cannot let it stop me from fulfilling from my duty."

Her husband's eyes rested on her with expression that was inscrutable. She had no doubt what Rhaegar considered her duty: to be a gracious and kind queen, devoted to charities and providing good upbringing to their children. Just because she could now rise to the Lady of Dorne did not change things: he would never expect of her to become a _ruling_ Lady of Dorne. He'd expect her to hand this responsibility over to him.

"Yes, of course," her father said. "If so…"

He reached into his doublet and took out the velvet box with the signet ring, the same one she had shown Lord Yronwood. He presented it to her. "If so, the Council of Dornish lords and ladies ask you to leave for Dorne as soon as possible. We've been without a ruler for too long."

Her hand slightly shaking, Elia took the ring she had so often seen on her mother's hand and then Doran's. Arianne had never taken it off, and neither had Doran. She paused, the ring in her finger. Slipping it on would make the change final. There would be no going back. She's turn her back to the life that had offered her some happiness once despite her reluctance to live it. She'd have to assume an enormous burden. And she'd lose her son, forever maybe.

She stared at the faded outlines of the spear and tears blurred her eyes. She choked them back and slipped the ring on her heart finger, lifted her eyes to her father.

"There is just one thing," Alric added. Looking straight at Rhaegar, he said it without preamble. "Dorne does not want you as our lady's consort. It'd rather deny Elia than accept you."

His words were so sudden and rude that even Elia startled. To his credit, Rhaegar didn't bat an eyelid. "Is that so? Who says it?"

"I do," Alric replied. "And Lord Gargalen my brother. Lord Manwoody. Lady Blackmont. Lord Qorgyle and Lord Jordayne. All those lords and ladies who signed this," he finished and handed Elia a piece of parchment. She perused it and then passed it to Rhaegar whose eyes widened.

"And you're ready to unleash a civil war in Dorne just because of your dislike of me?"

Alric snorted. "My feelings don't matter. Indeed, the thought of supporting my son against my daughter is just as repellent to me as the idea of supporting my daughter against my son. But if I have to choose, I'll have to back Oberyn up."

Rhaegar couldn't believe it. "He's a disaster!"

"Yes," Alric agreed. "But a _Dornish_ disaster he is."

The fight of brains was ready to start.


	5. Knives and Cradles

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you are awesome and you all get a virtual cookie each (not made by me since I would not do this to you).**

_Lady of Dorne_

**Knives and Cradles**

In the week following that first exchange everything looked cordial to the untrained eye: Alric and his retinue attended the lavish feasts Rhaegar gave each night, were attentive to Rhaella, exchanged pleasantries with the members if the Small Council, flirted with noble ladies, and even treated Lyanna with polite indifference. Even more amazing, they did not cause conflicts with the people from the Reach, although they never left one unresolved if such arose. But that was just good manners and behind closed doors, tempers flared and while downright insults had yet to be exchanged, mutual suspicions grew by each day; both sides' intransigence gave edge to each and every conversation.

In the ninth day since the beginning, mid-afternoon saw an unexpected visitor to Alric's lodgings. Sure, Elia knew that her father had left the Red Keep immediately after the midday feast but she had decided she'd wait for him no matter how long. And well, it turned out to be _quite_ long. She had already walked the distance from King's Landing to Dorne, surely, when she heard the door opening and turned around, ready to start talking, but the words died in her throat when she saw it wasn't her father coming in.

"Where is Rhaenys?" Rhaegar asked, as if they were just continuing a conversation they had ended just a few moments ago, as if it was fully expected of him to burst into Alric's rooms to talk to his wife when the truth was, he now rarely entered her chambers without being announced – despite her best efforts, Elia had been unable to play along with his pretences that their relationship had not changed at all, so at the end, he had stopped trying.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why, my lord father has taken her outside."

Rhaegar shrank her with a look. "Without permission," he retaliated. "Who does he think he is?"

"He had permission," Elia said. "Mine," she elaborated. "As to who he is, he's my father and you'd better not forget it." Her voice turned cold. "Given her experience with her _other_ grandfather, I cannot blame you for being cautious but your mistrust is quite misplaced. Rhaenys is perfectly safe with him."

Rhaegar blushed and looked aside, suddenly realizing how stupid he ought to look in her eyes. For all his dislike of Rhaegar that he didn't even bother to hide, Alric would never harm Elia, and Rhaenys was part of Elia, too. Besides, his goodfather wanted Rhaenys to inherit Dorne. He had all the incentives in the world to keep her safe and not one to harm her. The very fact that Rhaegar had thought he might – seven hells, he still didn't _feel_ comfortable knowing that she was with Alric – showed just how badly things with Dorne were festering.

"He hates me, doesn't he?"

Elia sank on the nearest coffer, as if she couldn't be bothered to go to the chair. "Why would you think so?"

"I can see it in his eyes."

She sighed. "Very well, he isn't too fond of you," she admitted as he, too, took a seat.

Looking at him, she saw him fighting to bite back the retort that it was quite disingenuous of Alric's to make so much out of what he perceived as Rhaegar's straying given his own marital past, and she grinded her teeth, so she would not spat that his escapades had nothing to do with her father's dislike. There were things like humiliation and political complications… but he would never take them into account, not while he was still so engrossed in achieving his prophecy. Elia would never forgive him for that. Really, he _wanted_ to bring the storm all over the world, just so his heads of the dragons could be the heroes? Elia just wanted to see them grow up. Prepare them the best way she could about their lives and responsibilities. She wanted to become a grandmother one day, for the Mother's sake! But such mundane concerns could barely touch the mind of the man who lived for the prophecy and believed its fulfillment would solve everything else.

Once, she had tried to be understanding. But his actions born out of prophetical-lusty feelings had depleted her empathy quite thoroughly. Now, she would never tell him just how disastrous his actions had been for her own family on her father's side. She felt that talking about it would demean her dead, for he had never thought to ask of all the lives lost except for those he had been made aware of. She would not ask for his regret. There were enough of those who mourned them.

"Why are you so obstinate?" she asked all of a sudden. "You don't even want me. Many of your lords are set against your Dornish queen anyway. They'll be only too glad to see my back. And you cannot have Dorne."

"Can't I?" he asked, very softly. "For real?"

All of a sudden, Elia smiled at the absurdity of it all. "You can try," she said, quite indifferently. "We both know how wars between Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms end, don't we?" Her smile grew, for it was really amusing. "I didn't think you wanted to be king of the Six Kingdoms."

He sighed. "It's all talk. Oberyn loves you too well to ever infringe upon what's yours."

"That's right," Elia agreed. "But then, you don't really mean for it to become mine, don't you? My brother knows that. All of Dorne does."

She made it sound like he wanted to rob her. He hadn't known that she even had this biting wit about her – by temper, she was not sarcastic. It felt strange that he was getting to know a new side of her just when they were going on their separate ways.

The cold afternoon light bathed her in grey. Rhaegar looked at her – and he was stunned by the change that had crashed upon her all of a sudden. Or maybe it had been encroaching on her slowly for years – the years they had spent not looking at each other. Avoiding looking at each other. Her features were still beautiful and finely chiseled but they had lost the softness that had once appealed to him so. She still looked serene but he could see it was a mask while once, it had not been so. Not with him. There had been a time when she had been genuinely happy to see him, had delighted in his company. The trials she had gone through had turned her into a prematurely aged woman who was always on the alert, waiting for the new strike to fall. He looked aside, shame and guilt rising.

"Has it not occurred to you," he asked softly, "that I might not want to let you go?"

Elia gave him an astonished look. All this time, she had taken it for granted that he wanted to be rid of her as much as she wanted to be rid of him. _Dear gods, is it possible that he's been hoping we could regain what we once had?_ For Elia, it had been over since the moment he took off with the little Northern girl so publicly while she could still not even visit the latrine on her own after giving him an heir. She had never stopped to think that he might have thought he might salvage something. That he had thought he could have it all – passion with his new wife and the companionship he had once enjoyed with Elia. Once again, she realized that he did not know her at all – and never had. She was a woman who was always ready to give someone a new chance, even him, and she had. He had clearly forgotten how hard he had worked to gain her forgiveness after Harrenhall. After his elopement with the Stark girl, there could be no forgiveness even if she tried – which she did.

Her affection for him was dead and buried, yet now she felt a sense of loss and sadness for what once had been. That had not been either the life she had chosen for herself, or the husband she would have chosen given the chance but for a while, she had believed it might work.

"No," she said. "It has never occurred to me."

"Do you hate me so much?"

Elia shook her head. She felt nothing about him, not even derision. He was just a stranger who had no place in her life and she wanted none in his. She didn't tell him that, though. Her best chance to achieve her freedom was to make him believe she'd be more amenable than Oberyn. Indeed, she would, because that was just how she was. The problem was that right now, she felt anything but amenable… If he could take a peek in her head, he'd never let her go. In fact, he would probably place her under guard!

Of course, if he got to know her secret, he would never let her go anyway, war and world be damned.

"Let me go, Rhaegar," she said. "Let's go of each other before we start truly hating."

"I could never hate you," he said.

She could have told him the same thing. And it would even be true, probably. But she didn't.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The doors were thrown open and Alric Gargalen entered with his sister and Rhaenys clinging to his hand. Naeryn and their companion Elvar Sand followed. Arthur Dayne was the last once in the procession, his hand ready to his sword.

Rhaenys ran to Elia as soon as she saw her and started babbling an excited tale about her adventures in the market. Aelinor made a swift curtsey and sank on the nearest couch. Satisfied that his charge was safely returned to her parents, Arthur bowed and left. Rhaegar noticed how pale and drawn he was. His time with his countrymen hadn't done him any favours.

"And we bought an array of knives!" Rhaenys went on. "I want to learn to use them. Teach me, Grandfather!"

Alric grinned. "We'll see," he said. "If you're well-behaved… But these aren't your knives, you know. They are for Lady Nym. If you prove to be a quick learner, I might buy you one of your own."

Rhaegar almost opened his mouth to interject that his daughter would definitely not be using knives for anything else but cut her food. Yet Rhaenys looked so happy that he didn't find it in him to spoil her joy.

A veritable army of servants followed with the purchases from today. Rhaenys immediately fished out the knives – and Naeryn took them out of her hands just as immediately. Elia went for the fabrics and then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the huge cradle of golden oak that two men were bringing in.

"It's for Alynna," Aelinor explained. "Lady Dayne, my niece," she added by the way of explanation to Rhaegar. "Just before we set on our journey, she gave birth to a lovely boy and girl. As far as I know, there isn't a double cradle at Starfall since twins never ran heavily in the Dayne line. That's Alynna's second set of twins and there is a cradle in Saltshore. But I thought she and Arel would love to have something of their own, not a remnant of the past."

The cradle was smooth and glassy, with a delicate design of various animals on both sides and a few rows of silver bells that sang as Elia rocked it. Her motions were slow and pained, her head bowed. She didn't look at Rhaegar and he didn't look at her. The room suddenly felt darker, dead, a dwell of whys and might have beens.


End file.
